


Carry

by Ptelea



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26962519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ptelea/pseuds/Ptelea
Summary: Whoever said, "He ain't heavy, he's my brother," didn't have to haul you around.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd
Comments: 40
Kudos: 396





	Carry

They kidnapped Richie Grayson-Wayne with every intent to ransom him fairly, which meant Dick was mostly frustrated and bored. They'd chained him up near a window, at least, which meant he was able to stare out at grassy fields with woods beyond. Minimal cover near the buildings. Both electronic surveillance and human lookouts posted outside and, from what Dick had overheard, at stations on nearby roads. An assortment of overhead drones. Dick automatically clocked the routes the guards took as they checked the perimeter, small gaps. He could get out if he had to, though he had a hazier idea of where the outside perimeters were set and how many were stationed there, watching for any signs of a rescue attempt. If he did get out, he'd want to try for a vehicle; his ankle was twinging from a hard twist and a bad landing when they'd pushed him into the van.

They'd been pleased to inform him that he was a long ways from Gotham. Dick thought about 40 miles based on time and speed; he'd been drugged into what would have been a full sleep for someone with a lower tolerance, but even dazed his time sense had always been good. "We're not crazy," one of them had explained to Dick while they'd grappled him out of the van and into the cabin they were in now. "We weren't going to stay in reach of the Batman."

On general grounds Dick thought they were being highly optimistic. He'd slurred as much to them under the remnants of the drug haze: "Didja know bats're found on ev'ry continent 'cept Antarctica? Bats're everywhere and that means you never know where the Batman might be!" (Gothamites knew both facts about bats and Bat facts, thank you very much.)

In this specific case, granted, it wouldn't be Batman coming for him, since B was in Asia on business. Since Dick had activated the tracker embedded in a rivet in his jeans, though, presumably someone would. 

One of the kidnappers came in from outside to talk to the two on indoors Richie-watching duty. He came over to regard Dick, sitting on a desk chair they'd thoughtfully provided for him, chained to a bar attached to the wall. (By one wrist. Only two indoors guards, and they were spending most of their time playing poker. Dick was going to get so much shit from the other Bats for this.) "Looks like your people think a lot of you," he said. "We might be able to wrap up negotations and have you home by dinner." 

"Good?" Dick said, in Richie Grayson-Wayne voice and with uncertain Richie expression. The gap between Dick and his Richie persona wasn't usually as large as the gap between Bruce and Brucie; Dick went with omission and a very narrowly tailored truth rather than Bruce's outright invention. Situations like these necessitated more of a performance. 

The kidnapper was in a chatty mood. That was fine, Dick liked chatty people on both strategic grounds and those of not being a hypocrite. "We were worried, I gotta say. Thought maybe we'd get more money with one of the younger kids in your family. Kids in jeopardy, people pay up more, right?"

Dick did not have to reach very hard for wide eyes and a gasp of outraged, fearful shock. Though if they'd gone for the youngest, Damian's cover including a proficiency for fencing, so that might have been a surprise for them.

"But kids in jeopardy usually just means more chance of capes, right? And you guys got way more than your share of capes. Besides, they're paying plenty for you."

"You guys? You're not from Gotham?" Not a surprise. He didn't recognize them and they didn't have the accent.

"Nah," Chatty Charlie said. "Tried to break into some stuff a few months ago but it didn't pan out. Because, no offense, your city is a creepy shithole run by psychotics." Ah. Dick didn't let comprehension cross Richie's face, but he made the mental link between these people and a group out of Maine that Red Hood had rebuffed from the city's drug trade two months ago.

"Gotham may have a bad reputation, but our people are wonderful and we have a number of initiatives in progress to bring out the best!" Dick said. Richie Wayne, Gotham spokesperson, slightly too chipper but with an indignant undertone that wasn't all feigned. 

"Yeah, okay," Chatty Chad said. "I guess sit tight and enjoy the view of something that isn't smog and weird villains while you wait. I'd like to see Batman sneak up on us here," he said in tones of satisfaction, looking out the window. "Maybe his shtick works in a city with shadows, but he's got no way to blend in here."

Dick eyed the flat grass and fields that immediately surrounded the cabin. Partly in the interest of playing Richie Grayson-Wayne, partly because the visual amused him, and partly because there'd been a change in the air around the time that this guy entered that he thought he recognized, he said, "Maybe the Batman has a beige and green camo version of his costume! You never know where a Bat might be."

He thought that would have been a good cue for a Bat to sail in from above, in camo or otherwise, but alas, it was apparently not to be. The guy snorted and moved away to talk to his conspirators. Dick overheard something about how he was a pretty boring victim, and something about how for a guy who was built he hadn't put up much of a fight. A round of derisive laughter all around. How delightful that the pre-kidnapping scuffle in which Richie Grayson-Wayne had not demonstrated a comparable level of skill to any known Gotham vigilante had entertained them. (Sooo much shit from the other Bats. Ugh.) Dick idly tapped his fingers against the chair, watched out the window, and glanced around the cabin at intervals, making sure not to stare too long or too hard up at the loft. In a discreet moment when all of the attention of the three kidnappers indoors was on each other, he slipped the thin wire out of the bottom hem of his jeans and picked the lock on the cuff that chained him, leaving the cuff on. 

It turned out that Chatty Chip heading out again was the cue. He opened the door to a wave of heat and sound: explosions from outside. The other two men sprang up, facing the door, hands on their weapons. The bullets--Red Hood, then--that rained down from the loft struck them from behind, and then Hood was sailing down from a line behind them.

Dick had instinctively slid off the chair to use it as a shield against ricochets. Jason was using rubber bullets; Dick relaxed and watched Jason work to subdue and restrain them. Hood was wearing a helmet that was more brown than red, which made Dick's lips twitch. Camo Bat indeed.

Hood went outside to deal with things there. More noise, eventual silence. The quiet lasted long enough that Dick wondered if Jason had left, although he hadn't heard any vehicles driving away. But it was possible that Jason had decided that while a shootout against people who had already made incursions on his territory was in character, actually pausing to free Richie Grayson-Wayne was a bridge too far. Fair enough, if so. Dick would feign a weak link and get free, and then use one of the kidnapper's cell phones, or try to recover his phone, and call the cops.

But then Jason was striding back in, carrying a can of...spray paint? Spray paint. He shook it and spray painted the back wall of the cabin in large letters: Stay out of Gotham. Dick suppressed another smile. 

The kidnappers moaned. Jason poked through the items on the table they'd been sitting at, their gear, a bag. From it, he pulled out and flipped through what looked like Dick's wallet before winging it without looking at high speed at Dick's face. Dick caught it in mid-air; Richie Wayne was at least allowed good reflexes. Hood pulled out his shoes next. "These yours?" His voice through the helmet was always strange. 

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Hood," Dick said politely, and Hood snorted and tossed his shoes to thud near him. 

The kidnappers were stirring, and Jason went to pull up Chatty Chase's head by his hair, aiming his head so that he could view the spray-painted message. "Pretty damn sure I told you to stay the fuck out of Gotham," he said.

"We aren't in Gotham!" Chatty Chaz said. "We stayed out!"

"Mmm, except I heard a rumor that you were spotted there earlier today, and hey..." here he maneuvered the man's head to look at Dick, "...right there's the goddamn evidence to back it up. Unless you're gonna tell me that our local luminary Richie Rich Grayson-Wayne just happened to take a trip to the countryside today and stumbled in here. That what happened?" He was addressing Dick directly. "You took a little trip out of Gotham and chained yourself to a wall for the fun of it?"

"Er, no?" Dick said.

"So. you. were. in. Gotham." Punctuated by raps of the man's head against the floor with each floor, though relatively light ones. "And what'd I say to you last time?"

"Don't come back to Gotham?"

"Do. Not. Come. Back. To. Gotham. Is that fucking clear now? Do I need to spell it out with your fucking blood?"

"No!" Chatty Chester moaned. "Look, we weren't coming back after this, we weren't trying to break in to your operations, I swear. This was just a one-shot deal. We did all that research on Gotham! We didn't want it to go to waste! One kidnapping, a little ransom to amortize our costs, no one tied to any of your operations!"

"But I didn't just say to stay out of my operations, did I? No, I said stay. the fuck. out of Gotham." Jason let go, standing up and striding over to Dick. "All right," he said, and they pantomimed unlocking the already-unlocked cuff. "You hurt?" At Dick's head shake, "Let's get out of here, then. Unless you want to stay and wait for camo Batman."

Dick found Jason hard to read in the helmet; he wasn't sure if that was an offhand quip or a subtle directive. Based on availability, he'd been expecting Tim to be the one to come; he hadn't known Jason was even in town right now. And Jason had different incentives and a different reputation to maintain than the other Bats, one that didn't include altruistic rescues of billionaire's sons. "Thank you very much! I could wait here or call the cops if that's easier for you?" Dick offered politely. "I wouldn't want to be any trouble."

"They've got plants in the sheriff's office here and there's about six of them unaccounted for, so nah, I wouldn't recommend it," Jason said, and pulled Dick up by a hand to the bicep. 

"No, hey, wait," Chatty Chuck said, pulling himself into a sitting position. His buddies were hushing him. "No, look," he said, speaking directly to Dick. "Look, you don't understand, this guy, he's not safe, you shouldn't go with him. You don't know what he--" He shifted to address Jason. "Look, man, he doesn't need to get caught up in this, okay? We'll take him back, drop him off at city limits or something, call his people to pick him up. He doesn't need to be involved in this."

Jason was rail-straight and still near him, his hand tight on Dick's arm. The kidnapper's concern was probably about one-third real, one-third hoping he could send Red Hood away and carrying on with the kidnapping, and one-third fear that if Red Hood murdered a billionaire's son the feds would descend and their kidnapping charges would escalate. Dick couldn't get a read on whether the taut energy that was thrumming through Jason was fury at the other man's accusation, that they didn't know what Hood was about, or that Jason was just trying his hardest not to laugh.

"Oh, I think it'll be fine," Dick said lightly. It clearly didn't reassure the kidnapper at all, but that was fine; he could just lie there and worry. Kidnapping should be bad for your inner peace. To Jason: "You didn't happen to see a phone in that bag, did you?"

Jason jerked his head toward the bag, and Dick rooted through it and found his phone, absently shifting to one foot to keep his weight off his twinging ankle as he swiped to the lock screen.

"You don't know what he--" Chatty Chatterson said.

"He's from Gotham," Dick said, sending a text to Alfred to stop any payments, and not to worry, Red Hood was seeing him home. "I'm sure it'll be fine." He waved on their way out the door and ignored the weak, "No, wait!" that followed them.

Outside: more men tied up. Vehicle debris. Quite a lot of vehicle debris. Had Jason blown up all of them or left any intact? From the fact that he was beginning to stride toward the field, probably not, dammit. "Er, you don't have a car, Mr. Hood?"

"Further out," Jason said tersely. "What, afraid of a little walk, Princess? Come on if you're coming."

"Right," Dick said, and followed, sadly bidding an internal farewell to the idea of a quick ride home and maybe an ice pack for his ankle. Well, if they had people among the local cops, probably best not to get pulled over driving a stolen car.

They were silent until they hit the tree line, and then Jason gave a terse debriefing about what he knew about this gang, members unaccounted for and what he knew about their surveillance of this area. He'd ditched his car on the other side of the woods, about six miles, so as not to alert them and turn things into a hostage situation. Dick gave his side in turn, although Jason knew the bulk of it already, from Dick tapping out code with his fingers while Jason was in the cabin's loft.

They settled into silence. The whole situation was about two shades off normal. They could have been just two brothers, hiking through the woods on a nice sunny day. If Jason didn't still have his helmet on, for protection and for its sensors; if Dick didn't have a dodgy ankle and the last bits of a sedative running through his system; if there weren't kidnappers behind them who were probably working their way loose of their bonds by now, with others at large.

Well, at least it was sunny, and not too hot in the shade of the trees. Dick focused on that, and his brother's back ahead of him, and just walked.

About twenty minutes in, Jason said abruptly, "You pissed at me for something? I used fucking rubber bullets." He was still walking.

Dick startled from his thoughts. The ankle pain had grown from a twinge into a throb. "What? No, of course not." What could possibly be--? Oh, maybe--? "I'm sorry, I didn't say thank you as me, did I? I did appreciate the rescue." Not least that Jason had used rubber bullets, and spray paint instead of blood, though he wasn't really surprised; Richie Grayson-Wayne being lightly kidnapped wasn't the sort of situation to trigger Jason's more violent impulses.

Jason halted abruptly, turning around to face him. "I didn't do it to be thanked," he snapped, irritation clear even through the helmet's voice filter.

Dick threw up his own hands in exasperation. "I really don't know what's going on in this conversation," he snapped back. "Why would I be pissed at you?"

"You shouldn't be, that's my point!" Jason said. There was a beat of silence before Jason said, "They hurt you. Fuck. Knee or ankle?"

Dick realized he'd shifted to stand on one foot automatically. "It's fine?" he said. "Ankle, but it's not important." 

Jason was already walking towards him, in his space and steering Dick to sit on a nearby rock, muttering, "You stupid fucking martyr." He crouched in front of him, took off Dick's shoe, pulled off his sock, and ran fingers around his ankle. "Two rounds of shitty Morse code I sat through telling me crap about their movements I already knew, and you didn't think to mention this? What the fuck?"

The rebuke stung. Dick pressed his lips together before spitting out, "I wasn't really noticing it until I was standing on it, and it's not bad, okay?" And he'd thought it would probably be Tim in the Batwing, and he hadn't counted on Jason exploding all the vehicles. Ugh, assumptions, ass, you, me--the rebuke stung, Dick admitted only to himself, because it was valid.

"Injuries get reported for a reason," Jason said, which was sanctimonious bullshit coming from a man who'd once played off a stab wound on a joint patrol until he'd fainted from the blood loss. Jason pulled Dick's sock back up and let go of his foot. "I wouldn't have exploded all their trucks if I knew we needed one."

"It's barely an injury," Dick said crossly, shoving his shoe back on and retying the laces. "Don't worry, I'll still give you five stars on Vigilante Yelp. Maybe only four, if you keep lecturing me. 'While the rescue was conducted with efficiency, flair, and delightfully noisy explosions, it came with a side of victim-blaming attitude.'" Some enterprising soul had set up Y(ell for H)elp, a vigilante-rating site in fonts and layouts that mimicked Yelp, some time ago. It had started in Gotham and spread to other cities with capes. Tim and Babs kept an eye on it (Dick privately suspected Tim's involvement in setting up the site, but he'd never asked). Dick checked the reviews of people he loved sometimes, when he needed a boost of spirits, though he found looking at his own to be profoundly embarrassing.

"Oh well, if that extra star's on the line," Jason said, pulling out a small bottle from his jacket, "then have some fucking ibuprofen." It was hard to get a read with the helmet, but he seemed more cheerful, probably because he always was when Dick lost his temper. "Which you could have had 20 minutes ago if you weren't suffering in silence." 

Dick swallowed two ibuprofen dry, and grudgingly said, "Thanks." He connected the dots. "Oh. You thought I was mad and giving you the silent treatment?"

"You're normally Chatty Charlie, so, yeah," Jason said, standing up from the crouch and crossing his arms. "Okay, real talk. I left a cache with a first aid kit about five more minutes from here, it's probably got a wrap we can use for your ankle. You gonna be able to manage the walk out or should we make another play? Because if I have to get crap from the other Bats about bringing you back with a career-ending injury or something, I'm going to tank your Vigilante Yelp reviews. I will tell the internet that Nightwing has noxious farts and lost his balance on a simple front handspring."

Dick mock gasped. "Jason! You can't mess with someone's Vigilante Yelp rating!" When Jason just stayed in place and didn't answer, Dick sighed. "Real talk, I'd rather try to get out of here discreetly than wait for more help and risk some sort of firefight. I'd tired and cranky and my ankle hurts and I'll probably brace it for a couple weeks but it's not debilitating and I can run if I have to."

Jason nodded and reached down to pull Dick up for the second time that day. "Okay, then."

The pain level stayed about the same; maybe the ibuprofen was keeping it from getting worse. They reached the backpack Jason had stashed away, and he tossed over a wrap from the first aid kit along with a bottle of water. Dick put on the wrap while Jason watched him with his arms crossed.

"Did they hurt you on purpose to keep you from running?" he asked grimly at one point.

"Just landed wrong when they threw me into the van," Dick said. He stood up and tested it, motioning his ability to continue. Jason was silent. Dick might have been projecting judgment into it. He knew how to fall better than that. He'd taught some of the rudiments to Jason, a long, long time ago. "I was drugged, I didn't fall right," he snapped. "Can we drop this now?"

He was surprised by the ragged edge in his own voice. A little pain that wasn't preventing functionality was no big deal. It had been, comparatively, an easy kidnapping. He'd mostly been bored. (Except for maybe the van ride; he'd made the split-second decision to preserve his cover and go along with the kidnapping based on what he'd seen of the kidnappers, but there was always that fear that going along with events would come back to bite you. Drugged and restrained in the back of the van, not knowing if someone would prove to be a creep or violent or nervous around firearms, was...okay, stressful.)

Jason held up his hands in surrender and shrugged on the backpack. They set off again. The wrap helped for maybe ten minutes. Jason was still in the lead, but glancing back more often. Dick grit his teeth and ignored it and focused on setting his feet right and stable because stepping into a gopher hole or tripping over a root or whatever was all this day needed. 

They paused so Jason could check his GPS. Dick leaned back against a tree and shifted his balance to one leg, appreciating the way the pain levels dropped when he wasn't putting weight on it. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back and breathed in and out, counting to twenty. When he opened his eyes again, Jason was watching him (probably, at least, the helmet was tilted in his direction). "Ready?" Dick asked.

"Yeah," Jason said. He shifted from foot to foot. Dick was probably reading him wrong, but there seemed to be something uncertain and awkward and young in his body language. "Look, would 20 minutes off your feet help?"

Dick weighed a 20-minute break, which sounded fantastic, against how stupid he would feel later if it gave the kidnappers more time to regroup, if they walked out of the woods and into an ambush or got stopped by a roadblock. "I'd rather get home faster," he said.

"Yeah, that wasn't--look, just," Jason said, and he took off the backpack and swung it around to the front of his body. "Your pain level's up, you're biting the shit out of your lip." Dick registered that he was and stopped, feeling sheepish. "So just--" he gestured vaguely at his back.

"Uh. Are you...offering to..carry me?" Dick said, bewildered. That didn't make sense to him. They'd gotten to the point where he absolutely trusted that Jason would, say, haul his unconscious self out of a building about to explode in a firefighter's carry, and he hoped--he really hoped--that Jason knew it was vice versa. Jason paying attention to and caring about his pain levels when it wasn't an emergency was new, though. But he honestly didn't know what else Jason could be suggesting.

He waited for Jason to scoff and throw the idea back in his face, but instead Jason said, "You are such a pain in my ass."

Which Dick thought meant...yes? The ability to think on your feet and adapt quickly was a necessary one for a Bat, but Dick honestly felt more Richie Grayson-Wayne than Nightwing right now, incredulous and at sea. "I'm just saying, I know you're taller than me now, but I'm not...light? I don't think--?"

"20 minutes, take it or leave it," Jason snapped. He made as if he was going to cross his arms again, but the backpack was in the way.

They stared at each other awkwardly for a minute while Dick tried to think very fast. On the one hand, the embarrassment of it all. While Dick didn't mind getting help--he hated asking for it, but usually didn't mind taking it if it were offered--it was different for something optional like this. Plus Jason would probably use it against him later, and it might tire Jason out or slow them down. And Dick could make it without help, so he really should. On the other hand, 20 minutes off his ankle now might help it last longer later, and also he had a suspicion that if he turned down the overture Jason would be offended and less likely to offer help to any of them later. Also, though he was trying to think logically and not to let it shape his decision too much--his ankle really was hurting by now.

Jason made a restless movement, and Dick blurted out, "Yes? Please?" to his own surprise.

It took a further awkward moment to solve the physical logistics. Somewhere over the years, his body had lost the easy muscle memory of being a kid and throwing himself at Bruce for a piggyback ride. Dick did not remember this much undignified scrambling, plus he nearly bashed his face against Jason's helmet. 

"Christ, you are heavy," Jason said, hitching him into place and starting to walk, and Dick shoved at his back and tried to get back down. He did not blush easily, but his face and the back of his neck felt hot. "For fuck's sake, settle down."

Dick subsided and said sulkily (if he was going to feel like a little kid he might as well go all out), "I did say."

"Sure," Jason said. "So fair warning on two things." 

They were going down the trail at a fair clip. Despite the comment, Jason didn't seem to be bothered by the addition of his weight. Dick mentally set a clock for 19 minutes and said, "What?"

"One, this does not go into the reports, and we are never going to speak of it again."

Dick raised his eyebrows. He sure wasn't going to argue that one, although he didn't see what Jason had to be embarrassed about. "Fine by me," he agreed fervently.

"Two, I know how you are, you giant cheeseball, and if at any point the words, 'I ain't heavy, I'm your brother' cross your lips--"

Embarrassment began to wash away in a flood of amusement.

"--I am dropping you and leaving you in these woods, don't think I won't."

Dick outright cackled. He desperately wanted to say it, just to see exactly how carefully Jason would try to drop him without fucking up his ankle further. Instead, he tightened his arms where they were looped around Jason into a quick affectionate squeeze and said mournfully, "It's too late to use that line, I already admitted to being heavy. It's all the muscle."

"Yeah, I should've stuck with rescuing Richie Grayson-Wayne. I bet he isn't this heavy."

Dick huffed. "He's an acrobat, he has muscle too."

"Nope, I have it on good authority from the tabloids that Richie's made of sunshine and sparkles and dandelion fluff."

"Mmm, thistledown and tumbleweed," Dick said. His ankle had settled into a minimal pain that he could easily ignore, which meant he should probably let Jason score the point. On the other hand... "I think maybe the question isn't whether Richie's _light_ but whether he's a light _weight_. The question is, does he get tipsy at the next Gotham Gala and say to all and sundry, 'That Red Hood sure does give good piggyback rides'?"

"Richie does that, he's going to be heavier when he gets two slugs of lead in his kneecaps," Jason snapped back. 

Which...wow. They'd apparently gotten to a point when he hadn't been looking where even Jason's empty threats weren't lethal. Today was full of revelations. Since Jason couldn't see his face, Dick didn't bother to hide his wide smile. "Richie'll drop your rating down to one star on Vigilante Yelp. One star, Jay!"

Jason grumbled something that sounded like, "That ungrateful shithead." 

Dick grinned in victory. "He's not that much of a lightweight," he said in conciliatory tones. "He's barely let any Wayne Industries secrets kinda sorta slip." (Strategically, at Bruce or Lucius or Tim's direction.) "And honestly he's really grateful. I mean, I am."

"Oh my god, why are you...you. Shut up and lemme focus on hauling your heavy ass back to Gotham."

Dick shut up obediently, and let his face rest against Jason's shoulder. Jason's long strides were eating up the trail. They weren't--ha, literally--out of the woods yet, but he wasn't drugged in a van or chained in a cabin listening to people insult Gotham, or dead in a ditch. They'd likely be back at the manor in time for dinner, and with Bruce out of town Jason would probably stay for it. Dick had 17 more minutes of freedom from pain. He had a brother who was choosing to carry his weight for a while. 

Dick closed his eyes for a moment, and just listened to the cadence of Jason's footfalls, counting the steps towards home.


End file.
